Читать книгу Caught by the Camera - Roy J. Snell - Страница 6

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All that happened after that remains in Jimmie’s memory like a very fast movie seen dimly from a dark corner. With the box under his arm, he opened the street door and looked out.

“Dark,” he murmured.

There was a shadowy figure in the corner. That, he thought, would be Tom. This, he knew at once, was true, for a low whistle, three notes ascending, came as a signal to his listening ear.

Starting out boldly into the night, he walked rapidly past a loading platform, all black and deserted. A dingy eating place, with lights out and door padlocked, came next. He shuddered at sight of that lock. “Bad spot, this,” he thought. A small auto repair shop and a filling station of a sort stood on the corner. He was about to pass this when, from a dark hole in the wall, a figure sprang at him.

Not a word was spoken. A grimy fist reached for the package. Jimmie was too quick for the fellow. He shot the long package forward. Taking his assailant under the chin, it bowled him over like a ten-pin.

“That should fix him,” the boy thought, as after leaping to one side he sprang forward. The man was quicker than he had counted on. A hand caught his foot. He went down in a heap. A corner of the box caught him in the pit of the stomach. For a count of twenty he was down and out, fighting for breath.

“Where’s Tom?” he thought, as he struggled to a sitting position. He could still hear the sound of running feet.

Next instant there came a cry:

“Police! Po——”

The call was not finished. It was Tom. Jimmie knew that. Something had gone wrong. He had counted on one man only. There must have been others. The whole affair was much more important than he had thought. Those men were up to something serious, and perhaps terrible.

He heard a police whistle. The flatfoots were coming. Tom would be taken care of.

The man with the package was still in sight.

“I’ll get him!” He set his will hard. “Get him if it takes a year!” Jimmie was fast. A football player of no mean ability, he had more than once done eighty yards to a touchdown.

The man was speeding straight down the street. What more could he ask? He was after him like a flash.

Two blocks and he had gained half a block. The man was but half a block away. “I—I’ll get him!”

But the man had vanished, gone down an alley—yes—yes—there he was. Now a little burst of speed. A hundred yards—hundred and fifty——

“Gone again!” The boy sped straight on. Coming at last to a door, he opened it to run down a flight of stairs, then down another. What place was this?

There came the rumble of cars. A bright light flashed past him. He had reached a narrow platform.

Some distance before him, still hugging the mysterious package, was the man. Beside him were low steel cars. They were in a freight tunnel. These small steel cars were drawn by an electric engine.

Just as the train started, the man vaulted into one of the cars. Not to be left behind, Jimmie followed his example. Next instant they were rattling along through a tunnel that was, Jimmie thought, like a grave, so narrow and cramped. Above him a trolley running on a live wire he might have touched, sizzled and snapped.

“Queer sort of place,” he murmured. “What next?”

The train rattled on and on. He had heard of the city’s freight tunnels. There were forty-two miles of them. They carried coal and merchandise to the great skyscrapers and hauled away ashes, cinders, and other trash.

“Trash,” he thought. “That’s what I’m sitting on.”

It was true, the car was half-filled with rubbish. Putting out a hand, he felt twisted wires, broken cardboard boxes and bundles of waste paper. As he shifted his position he felt something else, his candid camera. A thought flashed through his mind.

Why not a candid camera shot of that man? His chances of getting him were slim. A picture would help to spot him next time. But how was it to be done?

That, indeed, was the question. In his pocket was a flash bulb. Above him was electricity, too much of it. It hissed and sputtered at him.

“Rubbish,” he thought, feeling about him. His hand came into contact with a length of insulated wire. If he had this connected with his flash bulb, then hooked over that high-tension cable above him, both ends at once, there would be a flash, no doubt of that. And such a flash!

“Dangerous,” he murmured. “But perhaps not too much so.”

He felt about once more. Ah, yes, here was a square of old oilcloth. It should make insulation of a sort.

At last he had rigged the whole affair to suit his taste.

“But I’m too far away. Light won’t carry.”

The train slowed up but did not stop. The cars were close together. If he were to climb from one car to another, he could come closer to that man, get a clearer picture, have a better chance to catch the man, too.

At once he began dragging himself from car to car. This was risky business. The cable was all too close, but somehow he had a feeling that the whole affair was immensely important.

At last he dared go no farther. Two cars ahead, not fifteen feet away, was that man. He would be sure of a picture from here, if only,——

His heart skipped a beat. The train began slowing down. He had little doubt the man would leap from his car and run for it, the instant they stopped. That was his only chance of escape. Aided by the motorman and perhaps a platform attendant, Jimmie felt sure he could make trouble for him, and plenty of it.

The instant the man put up his head he meant to hook his wire over the cable. His eyes ached at thought of the flash that would follow. But it was worth the try.

The train moved slowly and yet more slowly. It moved its own length, another, and yet another. They twisted round a curve. There was a lighted platform. Now,——

But no——

The train was picking up speed again. He settled back in his place.

Scarcely had his tingling nerves composed themselves when again the train began to slow down.

“Now,” Jimmie breathed, gripping the bundle of oilcloth wrapped about his wire. “Now!”

The train was all but at a standstill. They were within a few feet of the platform.

Holding his camera high, he waited. Of a sudden, a dark bulk loomed ahead.

“He’s up,” he breathed. “Now!”

There came a sudden glare of light, then all went black. This lasted for a space of ten seconds. When normal vision returned, he saw the man with that bulky package racing down the platform.

Before he could catch him, he was up a flight of stairs and into a place that was a maze of packing boxes, pillars, and hand trucks. After falling over a truck and sprawling on the floor, then dashing into a post, he gave up the chase.

“What a mess!” he grumbled. “Money and package both gone!”

At once he began to wonder where he was. Some warehouse, probably. It would be well to get out of there as speedily as possible. If some watchman picked him up, it might mean a night in a police station.

Feeling his way about, he found a stairway. At the top of the stairs he came to a door with a spring lock on the inside. Turning the bolt, he let himself out—to find himself standing beneath a sky full of stars.

“Where am I?” he murmured once again.

From a distance he caught the rattle of a streetcar. He would soon know.